


if history speaks

by greenery



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: As you do, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Memories, Mostly Canon Compliant, Pre-Canon, Slice of Life, Vignette, pondering death and doom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-05
Updated: 2019-08-22
Packaged: 2020-04-08 09:44:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19104616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenery/pseuds/greenery
Summary: Ultimately every man dies alone. Henry had died alone, mere hours ago, and although John had sat by his side until the very end, held his hand, whispered sweet words of comfort, he had left this world on his own. And John is determined to follow him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i don't even know, i just needed to get this out, i guess
> 
> okay so, with bridgens’ skeleton (presumably armitage in real life), three relics were found: a pocket comb, a clothes brush and the peglar papers. i’m trying to imagine their back-story in three short vignettes from john and henry’s lives

Leaving the tents behind, and with them the deceptive safety of the camp, is the hardest part. Once John has made it past the last signs of English intrusion, walking gets easier, his tread gets lighter, as if a massive weight that had desperately tried to bring him down for the past few months is suddenly gone. He doesn’t know his ultimate destination, only that it is somewhere out there for sure, a patch of gravel maybe, bathed in cold and gleaming sunlight, what else is there on this godforsaken island? The sun has been out all day and it is with him now, keeping him company, keeping an eye on him on the last walk he will ever take. John is well aware of the irony — months and months of battling the cold and the snow and the storms, and today of all days the elements seem almost tame. He knows Henry would make a witty remark about it, but try as he might, John cannot imagine what he would say, he can no longer imagine any words coming from Henry’s mouth, it is as if his voice has been erased from his mind already, how is that possible?

 _What will become of us, John_ , Henry had asked him one night in the stewards’ cabin on _Erebus_ , _Without words?_

Although there is no voice to them, John remembers the muttered words, and he clings to them, keeps Henry close.

_What will become of us?_

John has never considered himself a particularly spiritual man, but he cannot deny the comfort of the thought that Henry is with him now, somehow, somewhere.

Not that it matters. Yes, John could swear he is sensing a kind of presence, but that’s easy to blame on lead or scurvy, and besides, ultimately every man dies alone. Henry had died alone, mere hours ago, and although John had sat by his side until the very end, held his hand, whispered sweet words of comfort, he had left this world on his own. And John is determined to follow him.

Never-ending gravel scrunches under his worn-out boots and he buries his hands in his coat pockets. The sun may be bright, but it provides only little warmth. John’s left fist closes around Henry’s folding pocket comb. In a fogged fit of sorrow and sentimentality, he had taken it from his bedside, together with his diary, if only to have something to hold, something to feel and to remember, and really, sliding his fingers along the smooth horn case seems strangely reassuring, like a pat on the back, a gentle push forward, _Go on John, it’s the right thing to do and you know it_. He slides his thumb across an indent in the case where it had once said _H. P. Peglar_ on a brass plaque, and it helps him to take his mind off the things that are to come, sooner than he had ever wished for, and yet they cannot come fast enough.

 

***

 

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Why are you grinning then?” Henry laughed and rested his chin on John’s chest. “What’s so funny?”

“I’m simply content, is all.”

And content he was. Not just glad about their current situation, but fulfilled with a deep sense of peace and comfort he had long thought forgotten and that left him absolutely, utterly … well, _content_. It had been Henry’s idea to get out of London, if only for a few days. They both knew it was a risk. Although shore leave tended to stretch ahead endlessly before them, the sea could call again any day. But what is a risk, John had told himself, if not an opportunity for discovery? And sure enough he had forgotten all about the risk, about the Royal Navy breathing down his neck, as soon as he’d caught sight of Henry, rundown suitcase in hand and beaming with excitement, at London Bridge Station.

The journey had been short, their room in the village Inn was cramped and shabby, but the landlady asked no questions as long as she saw some money. They spent their days exploring the countryside, the rolling hills, the lush vegetation. After many months in London, the lavish green everywhere seemed almost surreal to John, so excessive, so over the top. The villagers were proud of their square front gardens and tended to them ardently whenever possible, snipping at a stray twig here, breaking old soil up there. It was certainly pleasant to look at, but both John and Henry preferred the more or less untamed nature a few miles outside the village, where the far meadows and fields were only interrupted by hedgerows and an occasional little wood. There was a beauty to it one could not find in London or at sea, it was of a different kind, and there was also a beauty in Henry John had not seen before.

Barefoot, his linen trouser legs rolled up, wading through some stream and waving to John, urging him to follow him. John had of course obliged and the reward was the flowery little meadow where they had now come to rest on an old tablecloth, serving as a makeshift picnic blanket.

They had spent the sunny afternoon eating sandwiches, reading and drinking cheap wine from a bottle Henry had brought all the way from London, and as John lay now, his fingers interlaced under his head, the familiar weight of Henry’s head on his chest, watching the clouds go by, with a full stomach and a little tipsy, he couldn’t help but smile.

“Absolutely content,” he repeated quietly and felt his chest vibrate as Henry laughed again, clear and free and blending into the ever-present birdsong. Oh, what would he give for things to stay like this? No, what would he _not_ give? John freed his right arm and began to slowly stroke Henry’s back. He could feel the scars through his thin shirt, but now was not the time to ask.

“Let’s not go back tonight,” said Henry and closed his eyes, “We could stay and watch the stars.”

“It’ll be too cold, Henry. And the innkeeper will wonder where we are.”

“Let her wonder. I don’t want to leave.” He raised his head and leant on one elbow, using the other hand to push an unruly strand of hair back behind John’s ear with a slight grin. “Do you?”

 _This man will be the death of me_ , John thought. “Of course not, but—” he said. It was the easiest thing in the world to forget about the cold of the night when the gentle afternoon sun was still caressing one’s skin.

“So that’s settled then.” Still smiling, Henry cupped John’s face in his coarse hands and pressed a quick kiss on his nose.

“Nothing’s settled. Listen Henry, I need to—”

But Henry didn’t seem to hear him, or chose to ignore him, as he rummaged through John’s backpack at their feet.

_Listen Henry, I need to know - what is this, you and I, meeting in secrecy – then going on holiday like a married couple, only to be parted again so soon, an ocean between us? Why don’t you listen?_

John wanted to scream the words, or whisper them at least, but he couldn’t. They would take the train back to London tomorrow after lunch, and who was he to ruin their last full day out here for Henry?

Henry had apparently found what he was looking for and presented his little pocket comb to John.

“What’d you bring that for?”

Henry kneeled down beside his head, blocking the sun. Slowly, one by one, he began to brush more strands back. “For this exact reason. You should go see a barber soon, you look like you’ve been lost at sea for months—”

John’s scalp tingled. “You know I hate that,” he grumbled and pushed Henry’s hand away.

“I know you don’t. Anyways, looking like this, I’ll get you an eyepatch and you’ll pass for a proper pirate!”

Brow furrowed, John sat up and stretched his arms, doing his best to ignore Henry’s mockery. “You didn’t seem to mind all week. And as for tonight, nothing’s settled. It’s too—,” he began and fell silent as Henry provocatively pulled his light shirt over his head, flashing a bright grin at him.

“Is it not, Mr Blackbeard?”

John couldn’t suppress his smile any longer, and when he felt Henry’s lips on his and his hands on his lower back, tugging at his shirt, he cursed himself for his lack of backbone. But what was risk if not the opportunity for discovery? And there is always beauty in discovery, he mused, and pulled Henry closer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as usual, thanks for reading! i hope to post part 2 next week, and part 3 when the stars align!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> do i have to give a spoiler warning for a book that was published in 1818? spoilers for Frankenstein!

It’s as good a place as any, there is nothing special or unusual about it, lichens clinging desperately to light grey shingle, not a living soul in sight. All is still, except for the occasional screech of a seagull in the distance, but that might just be wishful thinking. With a sigh, John sits down. The stones feel surprisingly warm beneath his hands, they seem to have soaked up every ray of sunlight they could get over the course of the day and saved it for later. For him? John likes to think so, but in any case, he is simply grateful for the much too rare sensation of warmth under his body, although it stands in stark contrast to the harsh winds that tousle his hair.

Will the others make it?

He wants them to, he really does, but with the ways things have gone lately, he finds it hard to imagine a scenario that doesn’t end in tragedy. Failure, Sir John would call it, but the sound of that is too dry, too detached, good men have died here, the best, and more will before the sun sets today. No, John thinks, a failure for the Empire perhaps, but for us it’s a tragedy, and one that Shakespeare himself couldn’t have written better.

As he tries to settle down on his right side, something pushes into his hip bone, something larger than the pale stones. _Oh. The clothes brush!_ He pulls it out of the pocket and inspects it closely. How absurd that this simple piece of wood and bristles and ivory has been by his side for twenty five years or more, and yet he has never really looked at it. He hasn’t carved his name into it, like most men do with their knives and the like, but he is certain he could recognise it any time, would you hide it within a pile of hundreds of brushes.

It had been a gift from another steward on one of his very first voyages, and he has cherished it ever since. It had reliably brushed away sand and dust and snow and everything in between, and it had been with him when he’d first met Henry on board of the _Beagle_.

And here he sits now, getting sentimental over a darn clothes brush.

 

***

 

“Mr. Armitage.”

“Evening, Mr. Bridgens.”

The crisp air hit John like a brick wall when he stepped out onto the deck. Thomas Armitage, former gunroom steward on _Terror_ , was currently on watch duty and would be for another half hour or so, John estimated. He looked properly frozen through, most of his head was hidden beneath his welsh wig, and he had positioned himself strategically right next to the door, as if to get inside as swiftly as possible, once the bell would mark midnight.

“You looking for Peglar?” came a voice from somewhere behind Armitage’s woollen comforter.

John was quick to lower his gaze and focus on the still-steaming teacup in his right. “I … yes, I am indeed.”

_God, had they been so obvious?_

“He said you might come up later. Must be somewhere around the foremast.”

_Said I might come up later? Why on earth…?_

John nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Armitage.”

As he made his way towards the ship’s bow, careful not to lose his footing in the eternal twilight, he tried to recall the feeling of walking on a ship at sea, the wayward ups and downs, especially intense during the first few days after leaving the port, but couldn’t. The ice held _Erebus_ in its solid grip and would continue to do so for at least another few months, and even though John should be used to the thought by now, it sickened him. He paused and took a deep, painful breath.

The night was clear and bitterly cold, but during tonight’s dinner John had overheard Fitzjames informing the present Officers about rising temperatures, which would likely bring with them more snow, and very soon. To John, it didn’t look like it would snow anytime soon. He could let his gaze wander out onto the ice for miles and miles on end, so clean was the air, and above shone the aurora, bathing the two icebound ships in its blueish-green hue.

As predicted by Armitage, John made out a slim figure next to the foremast, arms resting on the railing and looking out into the never-ending whiteness. For just a second too long, he didn’t watch his step and slipped on a plank that had become a sheet of ice, and although he managed to prevent most of the tea from spilling, he couldn’t keep the _Dammit!_ from coming over his lips.

Henry spun around in an instant, apparently not so deep in thought as he had seemed, and scanned the deck.

“Who’s there?” he called out, voice tense and rifle at the ready.

John emerged slowly from the shadow. “It’s just me.”

“John! Well, you sure gave me a start,” Henry said, sounding somewhat relieved.

“I’m sorry. I meant to surprise you. I hadn’t realised it’s probably not the brightest idea to surprise a man on watch in our circumstances.”

“Oh no, it’s quite alright. For the best, I suppose. I was as good as asleep, and Irving has the next watch.”

“Wouldn’t want to be caught by him,” murmured John.

Henry laughed. “No, and that’s why I’m glad you came.” He eyed the teacup in John’s gloved hands. “Well, one of the reasons.”

“Oh.” John passed him the tin cup. “Nearly forgot about that. It’s probably frozen over by now.”

Henry shouldered his rifle and took a closer look at the tea. “Not quite, I think.” He pulled down his comforter and took a sip. “Hm, that’s good. So, why are you up here? It must be close to midnight.”

“Were you not expecting me? Seems to me you told Armitage all about it.”

“Oh, that,” Henry smiled into the tea, “To be frank, I just hoped you would come, I didn’t know it. You told me you were getting these headaches, too--”

“--And they make sleep near impossible.”

“Yeah.”

Henry leaned back against the rail and let his gaze wander lazily about the dimly lit deck. John rested his hands on the wooden beam next to him and looked up to catch another glimpse of the northern lights, but much to his surprise, they were almost completely hidden behind heavy clouds.

“It’s going to snow tonight,” said Henry, “Probably any minute now.”

“Yes, Fitzjames predicted as much,” said John , still astonished. Sure, after three years in the ice they had grown used to drastic changes in the weather, but so abrupt?

They stood in silence for a while, both lost in thought and unsure what to say, until the first snowflakes landed on the railing between them, sparsely at first, but rapidly gaining in size and number.

“Ah, here we go. Captain’s always right,” said Henry and flicked a few flakes over the side of the ship.

John followed them with his eyes, watched their swirly path before they disappeared between the others and finally vanished into darkness. It was completely silent, the silence only freshly-fallen snow could conjure, and as much as John didn’t want to disturb it, he neither wished to let one of their rare moments alone go to waste.

“Any sign of the creature?” he asked at last, for a second taken aback by the sound of his own voice, it was too loud, too harsh, it wasn’t right, and anyway, this wasn’t a moment for words. He longed to hold Henry, feel him, kiss him, he was so close, and they were so alone.

_Alone? You’re never alone on a ship, fool - what about the other men on watch? Irving? How long until eight bells?_

“No,” said Henry and yawned. “Hasn’t shown itself for nearly a week now. Don’t know if that’s good or bad.” He took another sip of tea. “I mean, it’s suspicious, isn’t it? First we see it roaming in the distance almost every day, and suddenly it’s gone. Tom says it may be digging a tunnel to get inside the ship and strike when we sleep.”

“Despair had indeed almost secured her prey, and I should soon have sunk beneath this misery.”

Henry thought for a moment. “What’s that from?”

“Frankenstein. Have you not read it?”

“It’s on my list.”

“I have a copy in my cabin, you can borrow it,” said John and placed his hand atop Henry’s on the snow-dusted railing. “Henry, do you sometimes feel like you’re sinking?” he asked softly.

When their eyes met, there was a bleakness in Henry’s that made an answer unneeded.

“I … I suppose I do,” he said and swallowed, while John gently squeezed his hand. “And you?”

“All the time.”

Henry managed a weak smile. “I guess that can be considered normal in our situation,” he shrugged. “What happens to Frankenstein in his misery?”

“When he’s lost in the arctic, he gets taken on board of a ship in search for the North Pole.”

“Rescued by a ship!”

“He dies shortly after in his cabin,“ John added drily.

“Oh.”

John couldn’t help but chuckle at the disappointment hín Henry’s voice. “It’s just a story, after all” he said and stroked the back of Henry’s hand with his thumb. “And he dies by illness, not by the hand of the creature.”

Henry snorted. “How encouraging.”

“Still, you should read it. Shelley raises intriguing questions about who the _real_ monster is, and I am actually starting to see certain parallels--”

Henry pulled his hand away and placed it on John’s cheek without breaking their eye contact.

“John. I have been awake for about twenty hours. I have been on watch for four of them. I love you, but I absolutely cannot partake in any form of moral philosophical discourse right now.” He tried to keep a straight face and failed miserably.

John laughed. “Fair enough.”

When he bent down and pressed a kiss on Henry’s lips, he didn’t worry about Irving or the others. The snowfall was too dense to see further than a few metres now, and besides, why should they care? Did not every man have more pressing matters on his mind?

Henry had placed the tea on the railing and cupped John’s face with both hands while they kissed, his woollen gloves scratchy on his skin, but apart from that, John didn’t feel much, the cold had taken its toll. But the gesture was there, and it was sweet and reminded them both of warmer days in his London rooms.

Breathing heavily, they broke apart and paused, simply taking each other in. John traced the tired lines on Henry’s face with his eyes. How much they had all changed in barely three years!

Desperate for a spark of warmth, he put his arms around Henry, embracing him tightly, and just as their lips met again, more eagerly this time, the piercing sound of the bell chiming eight made them both jump.

Henry promptly freed himself from John’s grasp. “Finally,” he exclaimed as he grabbed the tin cup, “I feel like I’ll never be warm again.”

“Will you come to my cabin?” asked John as they made their way across the snow-covered deck, and quickly added: “To get the book, I mean.”

Henry smiled. “I would like nothing more.”

At the door, Armitage was nowhere to be seen, and Henry was already expected by Lieutenant Irving.

“Ah, Mr. Peglar. Any unusual occurrences?”

“No, sir.”

John had already prepared to justify himself, but much to his bewilderment, Irving ignored his presence completely, and John would be a fool to voluntarily draw any attention to himself.

“Very well, Mr. Peglar. Have a good night.”

“You too, sir. A good watch, I mean.”

Irving nodded and tipped his hat. “Mr. Bridgens.”

They both looked after him as he disappeared into the ever-increasing snowfall, and John could have sworn that there had been the slightest hint of a smile on Irving’s face.

“That went surprisingly unproblematic,” said Henry finally and pulled his welsh wig off. “Let’s get inside.”

“Wait.” John produced the stewards’ mandatory clothes brush from his coat pocket. “The ship is already cold and damp enough as it is.”

He carefully brushed the snow off of Henry’s shoulders and back before he tended to his own greatcoat.

“Now that’s a service I could get used to,” laughed Henry.

“Oh, don’t flatter yourself.”

Still grinning and with one eyebrow slightly raised, Henry held the door open for him, and John gladly traded the arctic darkness for another, staler one.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh btw, the title is taken from sufjan stevens' "john my beloved", a very pretty little song

So this is it. 

Sixty-five years. It’s a good number, sturdy and friendly. John knows he has been granted a long life, especially when compared to most of the other men, and he is grateful for it, although he has spent so much of it in misery and hiding.

But what use is it to contemplate the past now, when he knows perfectly well it’s all obsolete and getting him nowhere. He has always been an overthinker -- philosopher, Charles Darwin had once fondly called him during one of their nightly chess matches on the  _ Beagle _ \--, but now he finds a strange kind of comfort in the mundane thought of being no more than a pile of bones in a few months’ time. 

It seems so simple, so right. A sun-bleached skeleton between sun-bleached stones.

Sure, he has always pictured a burial at sea, that sort of came with the career (if you could call it that), but who is he to make demands, and besides, simply being able to decide his own destiny already feels like an immense privilege.

Whether his bones get picked clean by fish or Arctic foxes, earth to earth, dust to dust, what does he care. 

_ Now what? _ Sit here and wait until his life flashes before his eyes?

He slides the clothes brush back into the pocket and finds the worn-out leather wallet that is Henry’s diary. It is not really a diary, though for simplicity they have always called it that, but more of a simple leathern cover holding together numerous loose pages. 

Henry had already used it on the  _ Beagle _ , slowly filled it with spelling exercises and the like, emptied it in London, only to fill it up on  _ Terror _ again. He had also brought a few newspaper clippings from London, a common sort of keepsake, but over the past few months they have been misused as writing paper as well. 

He doesn’t want to open the wallet, it feels wrong now, too intimate, although he has seen its contents hundreds of times before. His hands seem to feel otherwise, have already undone the fastening. 

_ The Dyer was and whare Traffalegar _ , he reads.

It’s nonsense, and it hurts.

He remembers promising Henry to get his thoughts back to England, not too long ago. He promised to bring them home. But home, was that not also here with him?

 

***

 

“You’ve been working all night, Mr. Bridgens.”

“As have you.”

Goodsir shook his head as he transferred the meagre leftovers of a blood-coloured liquid from one vial to another, smaller one. “No, I insist. You have to rest. I can manage on my own for a few hours.”

“What about Mr. Sinclair’s amputation later? Shouldn’t I be present?”

“I don’t — I’m afraid Sinclair won’t make it until the afternoon. As much as it pains me - it would be a labour of love in vain.” He held the vial against the light that seeped through the half-opened tent flaps. “We’re almost out of wine of coca, but I’ll do my best to make his last hours as comfortable as possible.”

John looked down at the scalpel he had been cleaning and slowly placed it next to the others in their battered wooden box. “You’re doing the Lord’s work, Doctor.”

Goodsir smiled faintly at him, but his usually so attentive eyes were absent.

Hesitantly, John put on his welsh wig and made for the tent flap, only to turn around again. “If you need me, I won’t be far.”

Goodsir nodded. “Yes, I thought so. Thank you, John. And try to rest.”

A well-known feeling of guilt clumped up in John’s stomach as he stepped into the blinding morning sun. He knew that Goodsir was perfectly capable of working alone, and with Sinclair’s amputation called off, there wasn’t any particularly challenging work to do today, at least not more challenging than usual. But one surgeon responsible for the remaining sixty-something men? It didn’t seem right. John looked around their ramshackle encampment. Each and every man he saw, slouching on benches in front of the tents or stumbling into the general direction of either Goodsir or Mr. Diggle, appeared to be lost in reverie at best, or half-dead at worst.

The captains had left before dawn in order to reach the Victory Point cairn by noon and return during the afternoon. Now, suddenly confronted with the harsh reality after having spent several days and nights within the microcosm of their makeshift sickbay, a chilling sense of helplessness crept into John’s bones. There was no denying he felt responsible for the fragile lives of these men, and he desperately wished either Crozier or Fitzjames would have stayed here, if only to provide a sense of safety and control. The lieutenants tried their best, but they could only do so much, and most of them were barely thirty and just as overwhelmed as everybody else, only better at hiding it.

Next to John, a young man threw up his half-digested breakfast, consisting apparently of tinned meat and little else. John hurried over to support the gagging and shaking figure, cabin boy Robert Golding, if he wasn’t mistaken, but was stopped with a weak handwave.

“‘s no use, Sir. Can’t keep it down. Might as well stop trying altogether.”

“That you won’t, Robert,” said John as he wrapped the boy’s — for he couldn’t be older than twenty, judging by his frail frame and gaunt face — arm around his shoulder and manoeuvred him to the nearest table, where he carefully seated him next to Solomon Tozer. John gave Tozer’s shoulder a quick squeeze.

“Get that man some water, will you?”

Tozer nodded, and if he felt this task was beneath his duties as a sergeant, he didn’t show it.

With a sigh, John turned to make his way back to the sickbay. It was cruelty to leave Goodsir to deal with all this on his own, nothing more, nothing less. He could sleep later.

He almost didn’t hear the hushed  _ Psst, John! _ over the crunch of the gravel beneath his feet. He couldn’t quite make out the source of the voice, until he discovered Henry, half-hidden behind a tent to his right, beckoning him over. They hadn’t seen each other in a few days, with John being preoccupied in the sickbay and Henry fighting off the first unmistakable signs of scurvy, and so John could hardly leave him standing there like that, only to hurry off to Goodsir again.

“What is it, Harry?”

“Do you have a minute to spare?”

Behind the tent, Thomas Hartnell was cowering uncomfortably on an upside-down bucket and stared into the remains of a meagre campfire. He looked up when he heard the two men approaching.

“Mr. Bridgens,” he nodded.

“Mr. Hartnell.”

“Sit down for a moment, will you?” said Henry and gently pushed John down onto a wonky bench on the other side of the fire. Henry sat down next to him. “I wanted to save this for a special occasion,” he proclaimed and produced a flattened cigarette from his waistcoat pocket, “but as the next special occasion may as well be my or one of your funerals, I have decided to abandon that plan.”

He lighted the cigarette on a still-gleaming log and passed it over to Hartnell, who drew in a deep breath and sighed contently. “Heaven. I just hope the others don’t smell anything, or we won’t be alone for long.”

John watched the thin trail of smoke that coiled almost vertically up towards the blue sky. “The air is calm, they shouldn’t smell a thing.”

With a raised eyebrow, Hartnell offered him the cigarette. As many vices as he called his own, John had never been much of a smoker. But the chances of making a habit of it now seemed relatively slim, and he could sense Henry’s curious gaze, so he accepted the offer with a mumbled  _ thank you. _

The three men sat in silence as the cigarette made its rounds, watching the faintly glowing embers, watching each other. Henry’s beard and hairline were crusted with blood, John noticed, ever so slightly, as if he carefully wiped it away every now and then, but it was there nonetheless. Hartnell barely looked better, all hollow cheeks and slow, hesitant movements.

John wondered for a moment if he looked just as miserable, but quickly dismissed the thought. It was probably for the best that they had brought no mirrors to the camp, apart from the tiny, dirt-crusted shaving mirrors. It was scarring enough to see close friends wasting away day by day, he did not want to know what it might do to a man to watch himself slowly decompose alive.

Henry flicked the cigarette butt into the fire, causing a few sparks to fly and flash up one last time before dying out on the shingle. The air was clean and smelled of smoke, and from the direction of the sickbay came a cry that made John flinch.

“I should—” he began, but was interrupted by Hartnell, who was focussed on the flames again. “I’m glad he’s not here to see all this.”

_ Why wouldn’t this fire die? _

“Your brother?” Henry asked softly.

“Aye. Worst day of my life when I dressed him in my good shirt and tossed the dirt on his coffin. By far. But I’m glad of it now. He’d never admit it, but he was always more faint-hearted than I, and  _ this _ ,” he made a vague gesture, “No man should see or hear it. I’m glad he’s gone.” He picked up a stone and dropped it into the fire. “That is the worst thing I have ever said aloud.”

John hesitated for a moment. “But perfectly reasonable,” he said slowly.

“Do you think he is watching over us?”

“I am sure of it,” declared John and didn’t whether that was the right or the wrong thing to say.

“He will help to guide us home,” added Henry and offered Hartnell his handkerchief. The young man managed a weak smile and blinked a few tears away. “Well, he isn’t doing a very good job, is he? And how could I ever return home without him? With having said what I just said? If the creature doesn’t kill me, my mother will gladly do so, one son dead or two, it hardly—”

“That’s quite enough of that, I should think,” John said firmly. He could feel Henry shift uneasily by his side. “Your mother will welcome you with open arms, and you will have thrilling stories to tell your children and grandchildren by the fireplace at night.”

“Do you have children, Mr. Bridgens?”

Henry leaned forward. “Tom, what John is trying to say is that everything will be all right. All is well. We have plenty of provisions left, we have boats, we have two very capable captains. We will manage. We always have.”

Hartnell shrugged. “That’s what everyone keeps telling me, I just find it hard to remain so optimistic sometimes.”

“It will be all right,” Henry repeated.

Hartnell nodded, wiped away a last tear and slowly stood up. “Well… I’ll leave you to it. Next watch is mine. Thank you for the cigarette, Henry. And for the words, Mr. Bridgens. I appreciate it.” He tipped his hat and disappeared between the tents, leaving behind two forlorn figures and a dying fire.

“Do you believe it,” John finally broke the silence, “That everything will be all right?”

“I don’t know what I believe anymore. I look at my diary and I don’t recognise the sentences I’ve written. How could I trust my own words?”

“Do you think there will be rescue parties?”

“The captains seem to believe it.”

“That is not what I was asking.”

“I know.” Henry finally looked up from the fire and into John’s eyes. “I believe we’re dead. I hope there are no rescue parties, because I wouldn’t wish this hell upon any other man.”

He turned away as if to get up and follow Hartnell, but John grabbed him by the shoulder and pressed his right hand against Henry’s pounding heart.

“You’re alive, Harry.  _ Now _ .”

Looking down, Henry placed a cold hand upon John’s.

“And we need you.  _ I _ need you.”

“There’s bruises all over me, John. I’ve been losing teeth,” he grimaced. With his free hand, he pulled his little leatherbound diary out of his coat pocket. “I know you don’t want to hear it, but will you get this home for me? Not to anyone in particular. You can keep it, if you like. I’d just like it to be in England, somehow.”

“You know this is the worst thing you could possibly ask of me.”

“Aye.”

John slowly leaned forward until their foreheads met, two hands lay entwined upon Henry’s chest, two upon the diary in his lap. John closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The smoke masked Henry’s scent, but it was all right, because he knew he was here, right in front of him, he could feel it, felt his warmth, his unsteady breathing, and if it could stay like this, if it could only stay like this.

Frankly, he didn’t know what kept him going. Whether it was the spectacular sunsets, the thoughts of home, that seemed to evolve more and more into fantasy, or the man who was now resting his head on his shoulder. It hardly mattered, but whatever it was, it pulled him forward, onward, like an invisible rope, and it was precious, because he knew how many men had already lost it.

If only there was a way to pass that rope to the others, to secure them and to pull them with him towards — what? Home? Death? The Passage?

“Oh Goddammit,” he cursed under his breath.

“I think Dr Goodsir is looking for you,” Henry murmured into his jumper.

 

***

 

Carefully, as not to scatter the loose pages, John closes the diary and places it secure within his coat’s inside pocket. Then he takes the heavy coat off and folds it, until its form vaguely resembles a pillow. When he rests his head on it, he doesn’t think much. He doesn’t think at all. He has done enough of that for a lifetime. This is not the time to think.

He can smell his coat and the unique odour that rises from the warm stones. Earthly, somehow, and not all that different from English cobblestone in June.

The sun sets, it’s hard to look away.

He closes his eyes.

_ So this is it. _


End file.
